


Bitches broken hearts.

by Negative_pines_creep



Category: Clone High
Genre: Angst, Awkward Feelings, Fluff if i make it there, Here we go, JFK and Vincent grow on each other, JFK rejects Van Gogh at first, Loneliness, M/M, One of them will probably die just wait, Who knows??, after that??, depression tw, i'm going to fail all my school exams, maybe ocs if i want, not me lmao, oh boy, smut????, suicide TW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27054964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Negative_pines_creep/pseuds/Negative_pines_creep
Summary: Everybody knowsYou and I are suicide and stolen artPretty mama sewsStitches into all your bitches' broken hearts---------------------------------------Van Gogh had been so, so optimistically hopeful about his crush on JFK. But JFK admits, with a saddened, awkward expression on his face, that he doesn't love the Dutch artist back. Ouch. Soul, crushed. Heart, broken. Tears, shed. Yellow paint had never looked more appealing. But maybe, after reflecting again, JFK sees something different in the little artsy anti-social kid, something much more than the painting of him that shone brightly by the old, antique ticking clock in art class......
Relationships: JFK & Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High), JFK/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	Bitches broken hearts.

**Author's Note:**

> What is it you want?  
> You can lie but I know that you're not fine  
> Every time you talk  
> It's all 'bout me, but you swear I'm not on your mind...

A trigger warning: Vincent is referenced to have suicidal thoughts. This chapter is told through his P.O.V.

“Keep up short-stack, you’re always falling, eh, uh, behind.” The first Wednesday of March. 2003. Practice meet for athletics. 1000m run. In the blazing sun outside, hot, sweltering, annoying temperatures, he hadn’t even had a nutritious breakfast, and he really, really needed to pee. Van Gogh was not feeling great about it, at all.

It was scorching weather, his gym pants were baggy and uncomfortable, he didn’t like to run, and he had been facing a bad art block recently. He was one lap behind all the other boys, all the other boys who were athletic, sporty, and popular. It was Infuriating. He just wanted to go back home and paint his starry skies, was that too much to ask for the Dutch artist?

“I’m trying to run as fast as I can JFK.” He murmured back to the close-minded jock, jogging in his evident exhaustion, while JFK took long, healthy, easy-going strides. “Fast!? You call that fast!? You’re dragging the whole team’s score down short-stack!” Tears almost prickled at Van Gogh’s eyes, he felt himself to be so, _so_ very useless at absolutely everything.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be on this track team anyway, principal Scudworth forced me to, even when I complained.” JFK sighed, stretching out his well-built arms. He wouldn’t have this. He wouldn’t have his track team taking even longer to run 1000m than usual. It was outrageous. They just had to be the best, it was a calling they had to step up to. He wouldn’t stand for failure.

“OK, short-stack. I’m picking you up and carrying you in my arms. Don’t resist me. The team captain has to do, what he has to do. Sacrifices must be made. Right now. C’mon.” “Wait, what? What sacrifices?” Van Gogh rebutted, eyeing the jock in exhaustion.

But to answer that question JFK suddenly picked up Van Gogh, carrying the little anti-social artist in his toned, muscular limbs. “Hey! What! Put me down! I can still run just fine! You’re all sweaty and gross JFK! This isn’t funny!” “Do not resist me, my little, adorable midgit. You weigh next to nothing. I’m just taking one for the team. Literally.” JFK kept striding on, carrying the artist who had a secret crush on him in his wide, roughed hands.

JFK was then, happily, after taking one for the team, the first person to cross the finish line of the red-checked running track, whooping a yell of victory. “I won! I won! I won! I won!” He sat the artist down onto the sun-blazed ground, the latter beginning to brush himself off, literally blushing at the same time. Vincent Van Gogh raised his eyebrows, shrinking into himself once more as his shirt sleeves were bunching up. Had to hide that. And quick. No one could see that. No one could discover just how much self-resentment he had for himself.

“It wasn’t even a competition. It was just a practice run, really. You can’t ‘win’ it. You were pretty slow anyway.” JFK smiled happily, adorable grin on his facial features. “Are you proud of me? I won. I won. I won. I won. I actually, won. In fact, you know what? I freaking dominated this competition.” He did a little happy dance, motioning around on the spot. “Ok, sure, JFK, I’m ‘proud’ of you. Again, you really didn’t win anything. Are you happy now?”

JFK squealed in delight, hugging the depressed, lonely painter tightly until he almost snapped his frail, thin bones. Nearby, an exhausted Julius Caesar collapsed onto the boiling track, bummed that he had come in second place when it really wasn’t a competition at all, just like Van Gogh had said. JFK rushed over, ready to taunt his victory to the sweaty, close-eyed mess panting on the ground.

Van Gogh assessed the scene quietly, smiling slightly to himself even though it was quite bizarre. JFK had actually talked to him! Like, actually. Not just one word, not just to ask what the homework task for last night was, not just to make fun of his friends or lack therefore of, but he had actually squealed at him, also smiling and laughing. He wished he could replicate that kind of happiness. 

Van Goh understood he had feelings for the jock, he couldn’t lie to himself, and a disastrous track meet wasn’t much of an interaction, but at least it was a start. A start. Maybe, one day, in a universe where he was lucky, JFK would actually like him back. Van Gogh could always hope. A down-spirited artist could always hope, couldn’t he?

* * *

The first Thursday of October. Pouring buckets of rain outside, loud, wet, chilly rain droplets that fell, and fell, and fell, and fell continuously, the end of God’s tears from the heavens never ceasing. Van Gogh had been caught without an umbrella, forgetting to take one with him, and then on his walk to school, the droplets had started to dribble slightly onto his shadowed face……..

Needless to say, he was now drenched in rain. It was soaked into his shabby clothes, into his recently-washed orange hair, into to the damp socks of his worn-out shoes. Gross. Utterly unappealing. Julius Caesar had gotten a ride from his popular friends, the loud, rowdy car had passed Van Gogh by without a care in the world, splashing him in muddy rain water.

Freezing. And there was still about ten minutes of walking to go. This day was in the pits of hell already, he could practically feel the depressive episode coming on. “Hey, short-stack! You’ve been caught, erhh, uh, wet at the crime scene! Haha. Lucky for us though, I won again! I won! I won! I won! I bought my umbrella!”

Van Gogh turned around in his sloshing shoes, coming to face with a clean, dry, up-lifted JFK. JFK smiled dumbly, motioning to his black and blue striped umbrella. “Yes, I see that you have an umbrella JFK. Are you offering it to me? I didn’t even know we lived near each other.” Van Gogh mused in confusion, trying to slink away to save himself from any future embarrassment he couldn’t bear to think about.

But JFK suddenly roped his arm around the painter’s shoulders, positioning him under the life-saving protection of the umbrella. “Do not resist. I have to do what I have to do this time! Saving you from hypothermia! You’re shaking so bad! We can share the umbrella! See, all dry now!” Van Gogh blushed, his heart beating furiously in his chest, his cold breath mixing in proximity to the breath of the boy he had a roaring crush on.

“Why are you being so nice to me, JFK?” Genuinely, why was he? It stumped Van Gogh, but at the same time, it also enthralled him. Was he allowed to get his hopes up? Was he allowed to imagine, that maybe JFK liked him back?

JFK looked slightly taken-aback by the abrupt, slightly pin-pointed question, rubbing at his chin. “Because that’s what friends do!” “We’re friends?” “We’re more than friends!” Van Gogh looked up, simply amazed, expecting ‘We’re in love’, or ‘We’re boyfriends’, or even, could he maybe, just maybe, wish upon a once-in-the-lifetime star for, ‘We’re soulmates’?? 

“We’re best friends Vincent! Best friends!” Oh. That was a bummer. Disappointing. Van Gogh paced ahead, allowing the heavy rain to fall on him instead of his own sadness, miserable again in his let down manner, with a confused, off-put JFK darting on running legs to catch up. Still though, because the sun was starting to shine behind the grey clouds in the sky, Van Gogh had hope.

Much more hope than he had ever had before.

* * *

The last Friday of November. Science class. Biology, of course. It was always biology, wasn’t it? Heh. At least biology was partly enjoyable, evidently more than boring gravity and confusing electrons. Van Gogh expected it to be just another average day, so he was frankly quite surprised when the announcement came from the teacher. “Partner project. Two in a pair. No more. No less. No complaining. No moaning. Go.”

The whole class groaned as one collective threat, rolling their eyes at the same time. “No buts, ‘awwwws’ or what if’s! And no swapping pairs! I’m watching all of you! I have eyes everywhere!” The teacher then started labouring off familiar names, Julius Caesar, Catherine the great. Joan of Arc, Abraham Lincoln. Gandhi, Marie Curie. John freaking Kennedy, Vincent freaking Van Gogh. What were the chances of that? What were the chances that maybe, just maybe, the universe was starting to favour the boy it had always mistreated?

It couldn’t be real.

The Dutch painter almost fell off his extra-high chair, propionate to his tiny height. The jock, with the artist! It surely had to be the universe coaxing him on, encouraging him to shoot his shot with the notorious, well known womanizer. And as a womanizer he was, who knew if JFK would even find the idea of male love disgusting?? He was well known for sleeping around with girls, but that was only to withhold the empty shell of trauma and loneliness within, right? JFK could give the artist a chance, right? C’mon. All his affection towards Van Gogh had to mean something. It just had to.

JFK bounded over to Van Gogh, the dumbest, happiest smile on his face.

“I can’t wait to work with my best friend!” “You mean boyfriend.” Van Gogh corrected under his breath, muttering incoherently, but almost hoping the former would hear his garbled words. “What was that short-stack?” “Uh, nothing!” Blushing, Van Gogh looked away. “Okkkk then. Anyway, I’m captain for this partnership, you can be the co-captain.” “Co-captain is not a thing.” “Yes it is! There’s captain, and then co-captain, and then, uh, erhh….” “Associate co-captain?”

“Associate co-captain!”

And the project they had to work on, the chemical explanation for what happened during the process of love between two people. (High levels of dopamine and a related hormone, norepinephrine, are released during attraction, these both equal feelings of bliss and a racing heartbeat, the teacher began to drone on, blah blah blah, Van Gogh was still disbelieving.)

 _Love. **Love**_. They were theorising about love, and JFK was sitting right next to him, small, insignificant paper planes forming themselves in his hands. It almost felt like a dream come true, like a sign from the universe. Oh yes. Van Gogh was hopeful. Extremely hopeful. The most hopeful he had ever been before.

* * *

Until. Always until. Always the downside. Always the bad. Always his bad luck.

Always Vincent Van Gogh’s bad luck.

A random day in early December, probably the third, Van Gogh couldn’t remember when. He didn’t even want to remember when. It was all too powerfully painful, all too powerfully embarrassing. In art class, he had been painting JFK, had been painting JFK’s attractive, lopsided facial features. From those sloppy brown eyes, to his fluffy, un-tamed hair, to his wide, un-knowing, shining smile. JFK had come barging up, gasping in comical excitement from a slightly sniggering tattle-tale by Julius Caesar. Always Julius Caesar. What was that boy’s problem?? _Jealously_? Imagine that.

“Wow, errrh, uh, is that me? Oh my gosh. Van Gogh, is that me? Is that really me?” Vincent almost screamed in shock by the jock’s jump-scare, trying to hastily hide the painting away, under his desk, under his shirt, almost hiding it under the several other paintings he had done of various other students that had caught his fancy, (too many to even properly name)

And too late. JFK had already seen it. JFK had already seen the painting of himself. “Do you, do you like it?” “Like it? Like it? I love it Vincent! Do you know what I love even more?” Please say me. Please say me. Please say me. Please say me. Van Gogh knew he shouldn’t hope for too much, but gosh, with the delighted look on JFK’s face…..“My best friend!” JFK finally exclaimed, wrapping his arms around Vincent’s thin, bony shoulders.

Ok. So, that was certainly close enough. It hadn’t been ‘my boyfriend’, but it had been so, _so_ very like it. That must’ve meant something, right? Surely. Even a small something. It had to be a blessing from the universe. It _had_ to be, Van Gogh was telling himself that.

And with those plump lips so close to his chapped and faded ones, Vincent made a decision. He was going to reveal his truth. His love for the jock. He was going to take the chance, what would be the worst that could happen? JFK rejecting him? Ok, that sounded bad in theory, but it seemed so un-likely when Van Gogh was so high on his hope.

“JFK, can I tell you something?” JFK nodded his head eagerly. “Can I tell you something about you?” JFK nodded his head eagerly. Deep breath. Count the roses in your hand. Wait, the proper saying was don’t count your chickens before they hatch. Van Gogh was going to hatch the chickens anyway, screw it. “I have a crush on you. I like you JFK. Dammit, I really do. And I know it’s wrong for a male to love a male, but will all the affection you’ve been showing me lately, you just seem so happy around me all the time, I was thinking, maybe we had a small chance….”

JFK shrunk back a little, an uncomfortable look on his face. “Oh, um, I, erhh, uh.” He was stammering. _Stammering._ He was muttering awkwardly, scratching his head like he wanted to replace his un-interest with his acute un-awareness. The small smile fell off Van Gogh’s face almost instantly. Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh, no, God no. JFK didn’t like him back. Instant regret. Instant embarrassment. The same embarrassment he had been scared of all along.

He looked down at the painting in his hands of JFK, already picturing his never-ending tears liquifying and mixing with the new brush strokes, brush strokes of red and white for the jock’s shirt that always shone when he was so very sad. “Look, erhh, uh, Van Gogh, you’re cool and all, but errh, uh….” “You don’t like me. You’re not gay. You would never love with me anyway, even if you were gay. Or bisexual. Or pansexual. Or even anything else.”

Van Gogh answered for the jock with those sullen words, his voice shrinking into a faint oblivion with each syllable. JFK nodded glumly. “Oh, well, I’m sorry for broaching the subject JFK. I really am. It was a stupid decision. Again. I’m sorry. Forget I even said anything in the first place. I didn’t say anything. My bad. Please forgive me. Please don’t judge me.”

It had _not_ been his good decision. He shouldn’t have made that decision. All those times, every single occurrence that had happened between them, he had read all of them wrong! JFK was just always so happy and cheerful and likeably-spirited, he displayed that part of his personality to everyone. _Everyone_.

Vincent Van Gogh, depressed, lonely, un-likable, he wasn’t special.

He wasn’t special to anyone.

Never had been, never would be.

“It’s fine Vincent, errrhh, uh, fine, I, erhh, uh, I have to go!“ JFK zipped away awkwardly, uncomfortableness too fucking uncomfortable to bear. And, holy hell, it stung that JFK left the entire art class itself in his embarrassment, zipping out the door. Was he _that_ repulsive? Was Van Gogh really _that_ awfully repulsive? The first tears dropped off Vincent’s hollowed-in cheek, ironically landing on JFK’s cheek in the painting, the tears from one boy’s beautiful face to the next.

 _Stupid_! **Stupid**! Stupid! Vincent Van Gogh thought himself so utterly, utterly fucking stupid.

* * *

Three hours later. Three cruel, brutal hours later. Third times the charm, so the saying went, but anything that could ever go right went wrong for someone who was in so much pain.

After a lunch alone in the bathrooms.

After an English class hiding behind ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’, his tears staining the browned, thinning, wasting-away pages.

After a math class, where he couldn’t even calculate 2+2 in his heart-shattering heart ache.

At three o’clock. The number three, always haunting him, three mistakes, three failures, three occurrences. The track meet. The walking in the rain. The science project.

And where had those things led him.

Back into his suffering, suffering he could’ve avoided if the jock he loved so dearly was able to suffer with him instead, instead of wasting his light on those giggly, makeup-caked pretty girls. But JFK never would. He would never shine his light on Van Gogh. No one would ever want to be the light Van Gogh needed, and his own light was the most diminished off them all.

“Try not to take it too personally, errrh, uh, alright, Van Gogh? You are, errh, uh, great at art, it’s just, I’m, uh, errh, a ladies man, erhh, uh, through and through.” Van Gogh nodded, managing one last disgusting smile at the jock. They parted ways at the main school gate, JFK waving goodbye with no more love in those brown, lopsided eyes.

Van Gogh didn’t return the gesture. He didn’t want to feel resentful or hateful, he didn’t hate JFK for rejecting him, no, not at all, but guess who he hated more than all the others combined.

Himself.

When he got home, he contemplated the bucket of ominous yellow paint on his desk. _Stupid_! **Stupid**! **_Stupid_**! He had been stupid for liking JFK. He had been stupid for thinking JFK liked him back. Last and certainly not least, he had been so revoltingly stupid for being hopeful in the first place of anything that could go right.

Nothing could go right.

Nothing would go right.

Nothing was allowed to go right.

Nothing had ever gone right, in the history of his entire life, ever.

Would he be stupid for staying alive when no one else on this entire planet loved him at all?

Wouldn’t he just be better off dead, better off dead when there’s was nothing chaining him to life except for an art talent he didn’t deserve?

He opened the lid of yellow death with his shaking, frail fingers, considering a refreshing beverage of suicide for his lost love.

The tears mixed with the paint once more.


End file.
